


Moments of Vulnerability

by queerinthenorth



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 06:43:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14514669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerinthenorth/pseuds/queerinthenorth
Summary: Sister Imperator and Papa II share a moment of vulnerability





	Moments of Vulnerability

“I don't see why you're making me do this, Sister. I am not a fucking toddler and you are not my mother.” Papa II hissed, venom laced words bouncing off the Sister as though they were merely wind.  
“You might be a toddler no longer, but you sure as hell have been acting like one. Perhaps this will keep you in line. Give you something to fear should you act up, yes?” she said, smirk spreading across her face as she considered her options.  
A belt?  
A paddle?  
A whip?  
When II was knee height, the option was simple, her hand because anything more and she would end up scaring the child rather than righting his wrong.  
She looked in her closet, quietly mulling over her options, but then she saw it out of the corner of her eye, hiding in the corner as though it were trying to conceal itself.

The cat o’ nine tails.

It was a simple whip, but brutal harsh and painful against bare skin.  
Especially as the knots in each tail raised welts unlike any other alongside the bruising brought on by the rest of it.

She held it in her hand, running the other hand over the knots and supple leather, readjusting to the weight of it in her hand.

The Sister turned around to look at II, whip in hand, and laughed as the blood slowly drained out of his face as he realized what she was holding.

“Well? Are you going to do this the easy way, or are you going to make it that much harder for yourself?” she asked him, waiting for a response but knowing that he was most likely going to fight it, as he was wont to do.

She had misjudged the effect of this particular whip on II, because instead of fighting her, he moved over to where the wrist restraints hung from the wall, and removed his shirt before lifting his arms into place and waiting for her to close the restraints.

The way his shoulders slumped, and his spine sagged made it look as though he had already been defeated. But they hadn't even started yet.

The Sister stood on her tiptoes, leaning against II as she closed the restraints, trying to make sure none of his face paint got on her outfit as she did so.

She took a step back, and basked in the sight before her.  
A man, usually so strong, so diginified, so dominant in every situation, stood before her, his chest bared to the world, and waiting for her to give him the punishment he knew he deserved.  
Of course, he would never admit this, but she knew that he needed this more than anything.  
She knew that he occasionally needed her to lift the burden of leadership from him, and let him be vulnerable.  
Before they had started this arrangement, he had been so pent up and angry, lashing out on anyone who dared to look at him wrong, and he had gotten away with it. No one was brave enough to stand up to him until he had dared to snap at her, and instead of receiving submission from her, he received a slap and a tongue lashing unlike any other, because the Sister was unlike any other.  
Where others might be docile, she was fearless and angry, she had spent so much of her life being stepped on by people who thought of themselves as better than her, that she refused to take it from one of the men that she had raised since they were nothing more than babies.

She shook her head, breaking her train of thought and remembering what she had been doing.

The Sister eyed II like he was a side of beef and she was a ravenous dog.  
She looked his chest up and down, looking for the right place to place the first strike.

The whip slammed down on his stomach, leaving angry red lines and small welts in its wake.

She let out a breathy laugh as she watched his skin change colors in response.  
Of all the things that she enjoyed about this, she enjoyed the color change of his skin the most.

The whip came down over and over, no skin was left untouched by the cruel leather of the whip.  
As she hit him over and over, he began to bruise a beautiful deep plum with ever so slight hints of red to the bruises.

She relented, taking a moment to breath and let him recover.

The Sister’s heart softened at the sight of tears running down his face, ruining his makeup ever so slightly.

She let him down and led him to the bed.  
They sat there for a while, Papa with his head on her shoulder, sniffling and trying to compose himself, the Sister with an arm around him, gently rubbing his back and telling him how well he had done.  
It was these moments of vulnerability that they both cherished the most.

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up at aestheticallycatholic.tumblr.com


End file.
